Devil on my Shoulder
by Hedgi
Summary: In Feburary 2016, Dante Ramon was killed by a drunk driver, and no matter how hard Cisco begged, Barry wouldn't change it. Dante was gone and nothing would bring him back. That's not quite true.


Epigraph and Title from the most Cisco song to ever Cisco, Orla Gartland's Devil on my by a tumblr prompt.

* * *

You haunt me like a ghost  
and that scares me the most  
There you are, the Devil on my Shoulder  
Smiling as the flames are growing colder  
How can I believe in what I have?

-Orla Gartland

Devil on my Shoulder

* * *

Cisco had been certain it was a dream, a nightmare or waking phantom, until his head cleared and he realized where exactly he was. In the dim lighting, the sub-sub-basement of Star Labs, hidden away below the floor of the particle accelerator pipeline seemed smaller than he knew it was, as if the world ended where the shadows lay. It was real, all of this was real, though so often he had felt the ghost of a man behind him, watching, hearing his voice every time he lifted a hand or let the world blur blue with a vibe, every instance of using his powers or tech tainted by promises that still echoed in his ears and dreams. (Don't be afraid) The smell, stale and rank, the way the sound of his shifting feet did not ring, the heartbeats. He should have known by the heartbeats. There had been two, his own and the haunter's, and now there were three. (A Great and Honorable Destiny awaits you now) The spell over him vanished as quickly as the red light had, and Cisco felt himself stumble before his knees actually gave out, enough for him to catch himself and lurch forward.

"Dante!" His voice suddenly seemed hoarse, as if the shock of seeing his brother alive, alive, alive had disconnected something vital in his throat. The figure in the chair, in the cage, so much cobbled together metal and glass, lifted his head. His hair was matted, snarled, hanging too long in his face. Dante had never had his hair long like Cisco's, had always gotten haircuts from Rosaria next door every month to 'maintain' it, something Cisco had teased him about endlessly when they were kids. It was long, now, making his thin, pale face look even thinner and paler, lost. His eyes seemed to swim for a moment, trying to fix on something other than darkness, before meeting Cisco's.

Cisco reached the barrier, pressing a flat palm against it. "Dante, oh, God, I'm Sorry." Nine and a half months. Nine and a half months since he'd returned from Earth two to Caitlin's pinched face and a phone full of tearful voicemails, urgent texts, missed calls. He'd given thought to his family if he had not returned. Cisco Ramon, the family's lost lamb, black sheep. He'd written the letter, given a few moments time to wonder how long Mama would wear dark colors, what his grandmother might say at a memorial, if Dante would keep the promise he'd made when they were teenagers about the music and play "Into the West." He hadn't wondered at all, hadn't spared a thought for the thought that he might return, and someone else might be gone. And yet. And yet. But here he was, Dante, alive, breathing and afraid, all this time, and no one had ever thought to look.

"Paco? What are- No, you can't be here, get out, go," Dante rasped out the order as if it took all his strength, and when Cisco didn't move, the resolve broke. "Cisco, I want to go home, I don't—I can't—go, you've got to go, he'll be back, he's here."

(A great and Honorable Destiny awaits you now)

Cisco could feel the pounding of his own heart, and Dante's, and the hummingbird pulse of the man in the shadows, and he did not run. There was, after all, no point in running. He had known that two years and as many timelines ago, his first death.

"How?" Cisco kept his back to the shadows, as if by ignoring them, they could not hurt him. This was a lie, he knew it was a lie, but he could not tear his eyes from the impossible thing in front of him. He was painfully aware of how small Dante seemed, made smaller by the tattered remains of a dress shirt and slacks, the smudges under eyes bright with fear and panic and exhaustion. "How are you alive?"

"If the Flash had bothered to go back, you'd know." It wasn't the right voice, it wasn't the same voice that lurked just beneath the thoughts, the voice that sang through time to find him everywhere, anywhere, hunting down any corner of peace Cisco had made for himself, but at the same time it was. "But I expect he had more important things to do, didn't he? Well, it hardly matters now, does it? You really can't change the past. But I can. And I have." Eobard Thawne did not need his speed to close the gap between himself and Cisco and Dante. He simply stepped forward, almost lazily. Cisco wanted to flinch, but could not.

Eobard smiled, and it made Cisco want to vomit. Dante's heart kicked up a notch, two, but Cisco's remained steady. He had lived this nightmare so many times, that it was real hardly seemed to matter, not when he could still hear the question and answer, burning like lead on his tongue.

"It wasn't even the first car wreck I've staged—well, faked. If anything, this one was easier. I didn't have to play pretend afterwards. Pretending to be traumatized, in mourning, all that waiting was exhausting. This was much simpler."

Rage, like white fire, like ice, like grief, lit inside Cisco's chest and still he could not move except to look up and meet the eyes of the Reverse Flash. The faces were different, the voices, even some of the vocal inflections, but the eyes were the same, not in shape or tint but something more than that. With that realization, Cisco again fought down the urge to vomit, the urge to run like prey before a falcon. (I only hope that as you're living your great adventure, that you remember who gave you that life.)

"Let him go, Thawne." His voice shook.

(And it was given out of love)

"In time, Cisco. For now, he's my guarantee that you keep your word. You remember what I asked, don't you?"

Cisco heaved for breath, as if his ribcage had suddenly pulled too close, protecting his now hammering heart at the expense of his lungs. What could he say? That he'd thought it was all in his head? Had he really thought so, or had he known it wasn't? "You asked what I'd do to get my brother back."

Dante made a small noise, not a cry, not a whisper, something like a groan of pain and a child's whimper. Cisco did not look back at him. He couldn't.

"And what did you say?" Thawne prompted.

Cisco had not turned away and cut himself off from the world on the Santini living room floor before betrayal. Cisco had not closed his eyes when Eddie had tried to save them all (and two years later had failed had failed had failed) or when Zoom had promised to kill them all, or when Black Siren had closed in. Cisco had not closed his eyes when Thawne had killed him.

He closed them now, his voice cracking, breaking, broken, shattered like glass on slick pavement. "I said I'd do anything."  
It was not a lie. It had not been a lie when he had said it to the shadows that still haunted every hallway. It was not a lie now.

He felt a gloved hand on his shoulder, gripping tightly. "I know you will."

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